


Eve of Battle

by dandelionlily



Category: Samurai 7
Genre: Anal Sex, Comrades in Arms, Harm to Children, M/M, Past Underage, Unbeta'd
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-03
Updated: 2012-07-03
Packaged: 2018-01-04 00:56:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1075177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dandelionlily/pseuds/dandelionlily
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the eve of the Nobuseri's attack on Kanna, Kambei and Kyuuzou engage in a different type of duel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Eve of Battle

 When I located Kyuuzou, I was glad I’d saved this task for last. I felt no particular urgency to relay any last orders, so I would have been willing to wait and watch for hours as the younger warrior danced in the clearing, cutting imaginary opponents to ribbons. The cuts of his twin blades were so precise that Heihachi probably could have named the make and model of each of the robots Kyuuzou was picturing. The man finished his kata and sheathed his swords before acknowledging my presence with a glance. He wasn’t even breathing hard.

 I felt something clench in my dried up heart that could have been pride. This blond wolf had chosen to follow me, even biting off his old master’s hand to do so. That he did so only to bury his fangs in my throat stirred an excitement in my belly. I had let not allowed my sword, mind or spirit to rust in the years since the war ended, but I did not truly know if mine were sharper than those of the red-coated assassin.

 The man was watching me from the corner of his eye, waiting for me to tell him what I wanted. “Kanna’s defenses are coming along well. Shichirouji has prepared defenses on the waterfall, and Heihachi seems to have an enormous surprise planned, if he can get it done in time,” I began inanely. Kyuuzou raised his eyebrows as if even that much reaction was more than the conversation deserved. “You did an excellent job with the archers.” The man actually turned and started walking away.

 Perhaps I shouldn’t have left this until late, after all. Talking with the assassin was far more tiring than I had anticipated. “Kyuuzou-dono,” I called, no louder than before but with the tone of an order. He stopped and watched me over his shoulder. “All of the other samurai have pledged to follow my orders or to protect Kanna, which are one and the same at this point. So far, you have followed me, but for the sake of the battle I must know: will you follow my orders?” Not that I minded him swooping in to save my life, precisely, but I needed him to be dependable tomorrow.

 “You will not accept my challenge until this job is done. So I will help you finish the job.” The seldom-heard bass voice sent a prickle of fear and excitement up my spine when he added, “. . . Captain.”

 “Thank you. I am sorry to make you wait.”

 “Remember. I will be the one to kill you, Kanbei-dono.”

 That threat again. “Or perhaps I will be the one to kill you.” I was retracing my steps to the watch tower erected above the waterfall when I felt him coming for me. I stopped, but didn’t turn or reach for my sword. My fighting spirit rose to meet his, but I clamped it down. If he cut me down from behind, he could not claim to have beaten any part of me.

 “Too slow. You could not beat me.”

 Was this what the taciturn man wanted? To argue over the outcome of a duel that may never occur? I turned to face him, puzzled by the sound of him sheathing his swords; from the hunger in his eyes, I understood. This creature that moved like as a bird’s shadow over rice paddies, that lived in the space between two blades, wanted me to show him a different kind of battle.

 With a slow smile, I began weaving my spell. “You think your Steel Camellia style is invincible? Yes, I know your school of swordsmanship. But you, I think, do not know mine. At the beginning of our duel you will receive blows you have never seen before. Some of them will sneak past the edges of your guard. The steel will nip at your hands and arms, barely touching your skin. None will seriously injure you, though the blood dripping down your arms will make your sword-grips sticky. You won’t fall early; you have a younger, stronger body, and your speed will almost make up for the difference in our skills. Still, as the fight draws on it will shave away our lives. What’s the longest duel you’ve ever had, boy? Five hours? Ten? I know how to conserve my strength and draw energy from my surroundings. You’ll slow, exhausted and tortured by thirst and the cuts staining your pale flesh red.” I made the battle as vivid as I could, struggling to capture the mind’s eye with which all great swordsmen analyzed and predicted battles.

 Shichirouji was better at this; with the gesture of a hand he could convey an unescapable sword blow and a drop in the timbre of his voice could make his predictions visceral, until your body believed even if your mind doubted. Of course, my old friend had also turned his skills to recreational uses, until there were days I would not let him speak to me so that I could avoid the hurricane of lust he could inspire.

 I slowly moved towards him, dropping my voice to an intimate register. He inched away, instinctively maintaining a sword-fighter’s distance from his opponent. Too bad for him, this wasn’t a sword fight. The silent young man had probably never before been attacked like this, his mind and fighting spirit ensnared in a net of words.

 “Your mind will be exhausted, prone to wandering, but you’re disciplined. Your focus during our duel was exquisite. Still, that will become a hyper-focus on me, and you will forget to take in your surroundings.” I took a sudden step forward and pursued while he withdrew. He stumbled over a root, unwilling to take his gaze or any of his attention from studying me, and I was able to drive him back several steps until he fetched up against a maple tree. His eyes widened at my little trick, and shivers traced his limbs.

 “As you slow, your swords will become too heavy for quite the right stance. Left sword point a finger’s-width too low, feet a hairsbreadth too close, weight shifted forward. You’ll throw yourself into offense, but I’ll stay on the defensive and wait you out until you use your classic double side-slash, and I’ll take that opening. Because the Steel Camellia relies on perfect balance between the swords, but you aren’t truly ambidextrous. It’s barely detectable, but your left sword is slower than your right.” The young man was panting, half-pinned against the tree, fists clenching rhythmically. “When you attack from the left with the double side-slash, that will leave the ribs of your left side open for half a second. Your right sword will strike me high in the chest, leaving a dangerous cut across to my left shoulder, but it’s my katana that will deliver a death blow. Right here,” I continued, tracing a finger over the predicted path of my sword, from the lowest rib, down and across to his navel. He shuddered, the blown pupils of his eyes making his excitement obvious. “My blade is so sharp you’ll barely feel it enter. Then the pain will come, but the agony will be dulled by shock and blood loss. Of course, a wounded wolf will still bite, so I’ll wait until you drop your swords before I’ll deliver you from the pain.”  With my thumbnail I traced the line on his neck where I had pressed my sword during our last duel. His pulse was as fast as if he had actually fought the described duel and his muscles sang with tension.

 His eyes dropped. “Kanbei-dono.”

 “Yes?”

 “Please.” He reached towards me but aborted the movement, as if unsure if he could touch. I caught his hands and pressed them against my chest, confused by this strange hesitence. Kyuuzou was no stranger to the release that could be found between two warriors; I’d stake my life on that much. It seemed even more improbable that he would not know the arousing effects of a brush with death, real or imagined.

 I reached to touch his cheek, smooth as a baby’s, and realized my own hands were trembling. I could feel the heat rushing through my veins, a demand I had no intention of refusing. “What do you want, Kyuuzou?” He tossed his head, mute. “Do you want these hands on you, pinning you down? Do you want my cock inside you?”

 “Please, Master.” Kyuuzou detached his double sheath and hesitated for just a fraction of a second before handing it to me to put down next to my own sword. It eased something inside me to see that the assassin had not lost all sense of caution just because he had decided to follow—to trust—this old warrior. Pulling at catches I couldn’t see, he removed his crimson coat and draped it over a branch before pulling off his skin-tight black shirt. My hands stilled on my belt. He had revealed a thin chest, pale as milk, sculpted with the long muscles of a martial artist. What had caught my attention, though, was the profusion of scars that transformed his chest into a map of pain and strength. This star-shaped crater marked a bullet’s exit wound, those scattered dimples were from bits of shrapnel, and thin white sword scars crisscrossed his skin like roads. There, from just below his left ribs to his navel, an ugly rope-like scar bore testimony to a old wound, but very deep. It would have almost killed the boy Kyuuzou must have been.

 Pulling the slender man close, I caressed the scar and felt him shudder, losing control already. “Who were you fighting?” I asked, unable to resist my curiosity and hoping the discussion of long-past injuries wouldn’t dull his arousal.

 “My sword master,” he answered, placid, and it took several moments for his meaning to penetrate. His previous swordmaster had done this to him, to a boy who couldn’t have been twenty yet? For a master to nearly kill such a student, it must have been a battle to the death. That is when I remembered why the Steel Camellia was such a rare style: the only way to enter the highest rankswas to kill one’s own sword master and seek the sword school’s founder.

 “How old were you?” I had to ask.

 “Fifteen.” Not so young, I told myself. He would have been a man, with ten years of training already. Barely younger than Katsushirou, and undoubtedly possessed of sword fighting genius of which I still saw only glimmers in my own student. He had probably known for years it would come to that final duel, and there was no reason to think Kyuuzou had loved his first master as I had adored mine or as Katsushirou doted on me.

 Kyuuzou watched my face from inches away, puzzled. I wondered what he had read on my face. Pity? Horror? Or just my flagging interest? His breath was hot in my ear as he said, “Won’t you fuck me, Master?” His bone-deep voice brought me back to the present. Kyuuzou was no child and, despite my confident words, I was not at all sure he wouldn’t be the one to kill me in the end. Unlikely only because it was doubtful I would survive all the battles I could foresee: driving the bandits back again and again, then fighting the capitol itself when it took a personal interest in Kanna’s rebellion. And since it was nearly certain Kyuuzou would be cheated out of the duel he so desired, I felt I owed him whatever he wanted tonight. I spared a thought to hope that the bandits held off until near morning. I honestly pitied anyone who would bother Kyuuzou while he was indisposed.

 I removed my hakama and set it aside, giving some care to not get it dirty; it was the only one I owned. When Kyuuzou plucked at the ties of my gi, letting his impatience show, I caught his wrists and bore him down to the ground, pinning his hands above his head. He struggled to lift his hands, muscles straining, teeth bared. I held him down easily; with this much leverage, not even Kikuchiyo would be able budge me. Not that Kyuuzou was helpless by any means: if he twisted his arms and pulled them in, I doubted I could keep him from slipping free. He seemed to be enjoying the pointless struggle, though, so I let him strain for a few minutes longer before licking and biting at his throat. I tasted his pulse point, feeling the way his heart rate sped up along with his breathing. “Please, Master, fuck me. Please, I want you so much,” he whispered in my ear.

 Something about those words, said in a whisper instead of Kyuuzou’s bass tones, froze me. I looked at his eyes. They were fully dilated, blacker than black, and lost somewhere in the distance. Or, rather, in the past. I cursed myself; how could I have not noticed he was calling me by another man’s title? Master. An assassin of Kyuuzou’s skill had no reason to call me such. Dono, yes, out of respect. Captain, once, a pledge of loyalty that shouldn’t mean anything coming from a man who I’d watched kill his allies when it suited him. And yet that title had been precious to me. But he had never called me sensei, much less master, before this night. So much for fifteen-year-old Kyuuzou not caring about the sword master who had nearly killed him and who he had been forced to kill. I tried to judge from the tense hunger on the younger man’s face if his master had been the boy’s lover in fact, or only in fantasy, but I realized I didn’t want to know.

 “Master?” Kyuuzou was impatient, trying to thrust up against me where we touched. I shifted away from him.

 “I’m not your master. I’m not the man you loved, and who tried to kill you. I am not the man you killed.” The moment of shock and pain on the young man’s face told me all I needed to know. “Every man you’ve been with . . .”

 “Why does it matter to you?”

 It was like a slap across the face. That magnificent duel I’d been forced to cut short, stalking me across the country, turning on his master and comrades to save my life . . . was any of that for me, or because I reminded him of his first lover? Whereas I’d known the moment he faced me in that improvised dueling arena that I wanted him: his sword, his loyalty, his spirit, and yes— his passion. There would be time, later, to see how much damage this blow had done to my withered old pride. For now I kept my face and voice impassive: “The bandits will likely launch their attack an hour before dawn. Be prepared.” I hesitated, trying to come up with some way to make things normal between us before I released him. I should have remembered that he was only as helpless as he wanted to be. I was straddling his chest when he brought up his knees sharply, striking me in the back and knocking me forward. He didn’t head-butt me very hard, something I was grateful for as soon as we came to rest again, our positions reversed. “Let me up,” I snarled, letting out the anger I couldn’t when he was in a vulnerable position. “You bastard. You’ve just been using me to fulfill some fantasy.”

 “And you?” he spat, and again I felt shame color my cheeks. I had tricked Kyuuzou into joining my crazy mission by refusing him the end of our duel. Winning a war against the Nobuseri with just seven samurai . . . I was indeed using them to fulfill my fantasy. “Kambei-dono,” the assassin said patiently.

 “You don’t have to stay. I’ve been unfair. The day after tomorrow, we’ll finish things between us.”

 “I’ll wait. I’m not going away.” Getting a wrestler’s hold on the front of my gi, he twisted until I was once again sitting on top of him. He watched me with eyes at half-mast, lounging on the ground as if it were the emperor’s couch. “No one else cared, when I drifted into the past.”

 “Kyuuzou-dono, I’m not the man you loved. I won’t pretend, and I won’t have you pretend.” I shifted to rise, but the young man knocked away my supporting arm, leaving me sprawled on top of him.

 “Kambei,” he said, and I had never heard a word as beautiful as my unadorned name in his voice. He paused, as if to be sure I was listening, and repeated, “I’m not going away.” It was different, this time. As I worked my way down his chest, I could feel it rumbling my name again. He squirmed out of any attempt to restrain him and snarled wordlessly at my delays instead of the whispery begging. Shedding my gi was a moment’s work compared to the difficulty of extracting Kyuuzou from his black skin-tight pants. If he’d had any spares, I probably would have given in to the urge to rip them down the seam. The expanse of soft skin revealed was stunning, and his cock, darkening and filling now that it had been freed from its confinement, was intoxicating. When I took it in my mouth, he yelped and fisted my hair. He thrust and I rode his movements, taking in as much as I could and swallowing, as Shichirouji taught me during those days of endless war and camaraderie. Kyuuzou watched me with wide eyes, clearly shocked and just as clearly wild for it, biting down on cries. With my mouth and hands I teased him to the brink many times and finally brought him to shuddering completion.

 I crawled up his sweat-sheened body, watching as the grimace of pleasure faded, leaving his face  slack. Then he opened his eyes, and I knew I wouldn’t have to wonder who he thinking of any more. His eyes were as intense as I remembered from our first meeting, like lasers etching my features into his memory. Then he stretched out fully and spread his legs, a tiger showing its belly. My breath caught at the challenge in his eyes.

 I fumbled in my coin purse, coming up with a small bottle of sword oil. It seemed appropriate; Kyuuzou was the finest weapon I had ever touched. I started stretching him with my fingers, unsure if the assassin would purr or scratch me, but he was impatient, spreading his legs further and wordlessly demanding more. I tried to roll him over so I could take him on his hands and knees, a position I knew would be easier on him than face-to-face, but the younger man ignored my hints and pulled himself up into my lap, arms draped loosely around my neck. He rose into a crouch and then sank down on my cock, pulling a grunt from me. “Kyuuzou--ah,” I managed to say before he lifted himself back up--thighs hard as iron--and sank back down again. He continued at an infuriatingly slow pace while I panted--and then he squeezed his interior muscles. I thrust up automatically, and he made his first sound, a sharp cry like a bird. I thrust again and again while he threw his head back, baring the pale column of his throat to my bites. His thighs began to tremble in reaction and his dick--hard again--rubbed against my stomach each time he raised himself. 

 I allowed him to strain towards orgasm until his panting was edged by a keening despair. Deep as each of my strokes penetrated, it isn’t fast enough or the right angle to get him off again. Taking pity on the ruthless swordsman, I tipped him onto his back and tucked one of his legs over each of my shoulders. His eyes were pleasure-glazed, leaving it to his body to convey his demands and impatience. I thrust into him as hard as I could and he skidded backwards before he braced his hands on the base of the tree and shoved back. I grasped his dick--long and slender as he was himself--and pumped in time with the thrusts. He snarled something inaudible and started to push himself up. I bit down on the tendon and muscle at the juncture of his neck and shoulder hard enough to draw blood; he gave another cry and came, sinking boneless to the ground. Between the erotic picture before me and the way his muscles clenched around me, it was only a minute before I thrust one last time into his lax body and climaxed.

 It amused me, afterward, to tend to the other man, wiping him down and covering his sweaty body against the chill of the night. So much younger, and yet he was utterly spent, dead to the world. Something about his stillness and the glazed eyes looking through me stirred a vague premonition. I forced away the feeling of unease; the eve of a battle was not the time for superstition. Still, I smoothed his hair back -- a familiarity he would never have allowed me if he were fully awake -- and propped myself against the base of the tree to keep watch over my comrade as he sank into sleep.


End file.
